The long read: My reporting on the invasion of Ukraine led to an assassination order being issued – and then came the mysterious illness
where I had been working for 17 years. I crossed the Polish-Ukrainian border on the night of 25 February. Over the course of four weeks, thanks to the incredible support of countless Ukrainians, I was able to file stories from the border, Odesa, Mykolaiv and Kherson. Kherson was under occupation. Getting in and out meant crossing the frontlines twice. In Kherson, Russian soldiers were kidnapping and torturing people. I found people who had survived being tortured.
It was like running into a wall. I went deaf; everything went white. I said: “I don’t believe you.” She said: “That’s what I told them, too – that I didn’t believe them. Then they played me a recording of you talking to someone about Mariupol, planning your trip. I recognised your voice.”Forty minutes later, my source from Ukrainian military reconnaissance called. He said: “We have information that an assassination of a female journalist from Novaya GazetaAn hour later, Muratov called me.
On the evening of 28 April, Muratov called me. He spoke in a very gentle voice. He said: “I know that you want to come home. But you cannot go back to Russia. They will kill you.”A month later, we were able to meet. Muratov said: “They’ll make it look like a hate crime. The people on the right hate lesbians.” By that stage I was working on my book. I wrote, and only thought about what I was writing. There wasn’t room for anything else in my head. Those were the best days.
When I arrived in Munich, I went to meet my friend, tried to get some sleep, then went to the embassy. The staff questioned me, asking what I was planning to do in Ukraine. They took my documents, but I still wasn’t able to apply for a visa – there were problems with their internal system. They said I should come back another day.
The walk home from the subway is five minutes. It took much longer. Every few steps, I had to put my bag down – it seemed unbearably heavy – and rest. On the stairs I got short of breath. I thought to myself: “This fucking Covid has really messed me up.” As soon as I got home, I went to sleep. It isn’t easy to see a doctor in Berlin. I was only able to get an appointment on 28 October, 10 days after I became ill. It was a regular clinic in my neighbourhood. The doctors – there were two of them – both immediately said that I had long Covid: “It can go on for up to six months. If you don’t feel better six months from now, come back.” But they did an ultrasound: all clear. They tapped on my stomach. I got them to do some blood tests.
Meduza put me in touch with a doctor they trusted. The doctor decided to retest me for hepatitis. The tests came back negative. While I was heading home, he wrote to me: “Is it possible that you have been poisoned?” I replied: “No, I am not that dangerous.”